Fairytale
by bonnie-incognito
Summary: Lonely, drunken Christmas Eves will never amount to fairytale romances, no matter how much you hold her, protect her and adore her... ::RemusLily::RemusTonks::


**Ok, this is actually part of Huffie's challenge, but I'm actually quite proud of this piece; as my actual challenge submission chapter-fic is getting approximately zilch reviews (lol, due to my crappy first chapters, one of which actually has nothing to do with Christmas now I come to think of it!), I thought I'd post it as a oneshot - still part of the challenge - in my desperate quest for more reviews... Yes, I know I'm completely shameless. D**

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_To carry on  
We'll carry on  
And though you're dead and gone believe me  
Your memory will carry on  
We'll carry on  
And though you're broken and defeated  
Your weary widow marches on _

**-x-**

Welcome To The Black Parade, My Chemical Romance

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**s h u d de r**

(_because there won't always be time for a fairytale romance_)

The house is not by any means old, but it looks as if it's been through a million bitter wars; a whole side has been blasted away, fragments of wood litter the ground, and the gate is hanging a little off its hinges. What pains him the most, though, is the body lying in the exposed bedroom, thrown aside so carelessly to rot along with her husband and child. The little house across the cobbled street is indeed a sight to behold. A light autumn breeze wafts down the road, bringing with it the smell of decaying flowers and death; he can still detect her perfume through the stench, strawberries and cinnamon on the wind. He shivers in the cold night air; a singular tear freezes on his cheek, glistening, crystalline, in the moonlight. A lone, choked sob escapes him, an animal sound of pain and indescribable misery.

-x-

He's closer now. He's hovering in the doorway to the bedroom where the child lies sleeping and his love lies dead. He longs to hold her again, to protect her and adore her. And he does not remember the last time they met, no instance of solace greets him through the night; consolation does not come to him in a moment of clarity, because this is no fairytale romance, and he knows that sleep will not visit these eyes for many nights to come. The wind has picked up now; it's whistling through the derelict house, strong gusts blowing smouldering debris away from the bare shell of a once loved place. He wishes he could say he hears her voice on the air, whispering to him from beyond the soul, but all is silent. Her hair flutters about her head, loose strands whipping across her deathly white face and into her glazed, staring eyes. The house is but a void; a place so utterly empty and broken, stripped of all joy and life, happiness and light.

-x-

Closer still. Lightning flashes across the sky, a streak of dazzling white against the harsh, midnight black. Thunder rumbles overhead. Rain pelts down on the desolate village, ashen storm clouds swirling above. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, wispy clouds of vapour appearing before him at every laboured outward wheeze. He's beside her now, kneeling over her still body. He will not brave the cold for much longer; his mind is blank, but the icy tendrils of frozen air still seep into him, chilling him to the bone and slapping mercilessly at his face. He's on autopilot now, nothing will stop him. His knees sink into the sodden carpet as he leans down for one last kiss - he vaguely knows, somewhere deep within himself, that this is a strange, wrong thing to be doing, but he no longer cares for judging the situation as any apathetic onlooker might. His face is a millimetre from hers; he can see every last beautiful detail, every single line, every premature wrinkle (stress-induced, he knows, but she _does_ insist on calling them 'laughter lines'). Her eyes are wide, in terror, anticipation or shock, he will never know, but they're still that intoxicating shade of malachite green, still stunning emerald lakes of bittersweet wisdom and experience, but the light is gone; the flickering, fiery sparkle is now woefully absent, the window to this soul now closed. She lacks her once inspiring defiance, he thinks. His own recalcitrance evaporates in this moment, as he truly begins to realise that maybe, just _perhaps_, she might really be gone.

-x-

(_looking back in later years, one lonely, drunken Christmas eve, he cannot quite fathom where it began and where it ended; was it when she fell through the water-logged, dilapidated floorboards in that magical split second where he genuinely believed that he could have one last opportunity to hold her again, to protect her and adore her, or was it when he stared brokenly through that gaping hole, and first noticed his best friend's defeated body lying sprawled across the hard, unforgiving ground?_)

-x-

The man is not by any means old, but he looks as though he's been through a million bitter wars; she sees him from the other side of the battle-ravaged hall, spread across the stone tiles like some gratuitous rag doll, thrown aside in a temper tantrum of death. He is not, however, dead. Yet. She sees this as she stumbles across the conflict zone towards him, breathing raggedly and anguish clouding her mind; he stirs weakly, obviously suffering horribly from some gruesome curse or another. She suspects Dolohov, but doesn't have time to think of such trivial (and, oh, these things seem trivial at such moments) things now. She reaches him, shakes him, tells him that she loves him, informs him that, under no circumstances, may he die on her, but he's fading fast, a shining moon floating slowly, gently behind the ashen storm clouds of that night so, so long ago. There is no blood around him, no sign of damage, but the dark magic is destroying him from the inside out, spreading, snakelike, through and sucking away the last precious vestiges of life, invisible poison coursing through him, crashing through his defences and breaking him down bit by bit. Not dead, but dying; as good as. She sobs over him, fierce battle raging around her as she weeps for a man not yet dead, for she cannot leave him, absolutely will not allow herself to – _"__I, Dora Tonks, take you, Remus John Lupin, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part."_ "'Until death do us part', darling, and you're not dead yet," she murmurs through hot tears.

-x-

The great, magical ceiling is malfunctioning loudly, conquered at last by the relentless onslaught of badly aimed jinxes and curses; lightning flashes across the sky, a streak of dazzling white against the harsh, midnight black. Thunder rumbles overhead. Time is dragging, dragging, dragging, she has been there for an eternity, yet all but a second, she is dying herself, yet she is so, _so_ alive, so pumped full of adrenalin, and _life_. He is gasping and shaking in her embrace, bones cracking and blood quite literally boiling within him, but still he lives. She remembers all his quirky habits, his odd little ways; folding his socks a particular way, stirring his tea _anti_clockwise in the mornings (but not in the evenings, mind), the way he would close his eyes and make a wish every time she smiled, how innocently sweet he could be, but how fiercely protective at a moments notice… how much she loved him, how much he loved her, their marriage, their son, their lives, but that's all worthless now, quite useless beneath the rising tide of the night. She longs for him to hold her again, to protect her and adore her, but time is running out for pleasantries.

-x-

He is reaching for her now, a shaking hand stretching weakly up to her face. Maybe he hopes to see a hint of defiance there, a trace of Lily lingering after all the lonely years; he sees nothing but grief, a curious longing in the black, black eyes. His hands are unbearably hot, burning her cheeks with his touch, but she would do anything to prolong this moment of perversely peaceful serenity. In a moment of wild hope, a second of faithful almost-insanity, she thinks that maybe her tears can heal him, restore him like a tortured phoenix from the ashes. The ashes are still smoking, surely there is time? Her crazed fervour deceives her, false presumptions toying with her torn, destroyed mind. She wishes, so purely, so inculpably, to kiss him one last time, craves to hug him, to hold him once again. The roles of protector and protected have switched, somewhere imperceptible along the thinnest line humanly imaginable; they have changed, war twisted yet ever hopeful. She cradles his poor, feverish hand to her, pressing it to her face, content with mere fingers to kiss. What more can she ask from him? Blood is streaming from his closed mouth, spurting through his lips and splattering his would-be forever with rubies. A seemingly silent moment passes. He is gone; of this she is unfailingly certain. A voice behind her is mocking her misery, telling her that love's no good to her anymore, but she hears it as if through a dense, confused fog. Then she is dead; of this she is unfailingly certain.

(_this is undeniably where it began and where it ended; she has no lonely, drunken Christmas eves to look back from, for hers is no fairytale romance_)

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**So, I hope you enjoyed it! And, hurrah, it's actually over a thousand words - 1,472 to be exact... Yeah...**

**Review or... or... damn, I've run out of threats to make you review... ok, just be nice and review!**


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